Tenebrae Manor (15 page)

15: Arpage Struggles To Adjust

With one hand clasped in a feeble grip, Arpage drove his other into the gaping maw of a cloth sack and clutched at a handful of seeds. He withdrew his closed fist and sighed inwardly as the majority of grains he had grasped fell through his thin fingers like sand in an hourglass. By the time his hand emerged from the sack he was able to open his fist and count but a few measly seeds lying dormant in his palm. His eyes scanned the field before him, hillocks of pumpkins reared their orange heads and for a moment he was reminded of an impressive crowd in some grand auditorium. But no, these pumpkins would not congratulate him, even if he were to bow or blow kisses. They would not throw roses at his feet nor hurl confetti to rain down onto his shoulders. Instead, it would be he that threw the confetti of seeds at them.

             
Arpage sighed again and tossed them with a weak underarm swing and pretended their clatter on the dried earth was the applause of his ghostly audience. His shoulders slouched and his mouth, a capsized smile, sunk further into dissatisfaction. He turned his head back towards Sinders' shack and weighed up his progress of work with what remained. He had only thrown the seeds over a tenth of the vast field and the crows, having recognised the familiar sound of scattered seeds falling, wasted no time in swooping down from their blackened perches to scour the ground for bounty. The slimy pelt of Arpage's greasy cowlick drooped with frustration.

"Away, you beastly birds!"

His hands flailed but the black birds resolutely ignored him. Some swung perilously close to his face while others more confident with the aim of their beaks were able to clip him about the arms and hands, further fraying the fabric of his green cardigan.

"You'll never scare them away like that. Look at the fear in your eyes! They know you are not a threat."

Sinders emerged from his darkened home and into the moonlight. The crows instantly dissipated with his appearance. Arpage hurled the sack of seeds down in anger.

"Well maybe you should be doing this then! After all, you're the scarecrow! I simply despise this cruel punishment, oh woe!"

The composer had fallen to his knees and begun to sob gently.

"Well what am I to do?" replied Sinders. "I was ordered to keep you busy, what else can I have you waste the hours on?"

"I'm tired, sir," moaned Arpage.

"You are a namby-pamby."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A fop! A wimp! Insipid!"

Arpage was taken aback. "I am no such thing!"

"Nonsense, my friend! I've never heard a man complain so much." Sinders turned from the crestfallen composer and entered his home again, continuing, "This is meant to be punishment, no? Now our young man here is a model citizen! Jethro, how goes it?"

Arpage crawled through the doorway on his hands and knees to see Jethro huddled over a small flame, with Sinders looming in the shadows behind him.

"You managed to light the fire, lad!" said Sinders, placing a hand of straw on the man's back.

Jethro flinched a little. "Yes... Yes the fire is lit..."

"No need to tell me, you dull boy! Now Arpage, why can't you move with the same quiet obedience as our mortal friend here?"

Casting his glance this way and that, so that he was able to absorb the entire picture before him, Arpage analysed the bleak shack. Its interior had undergone a vast increase in homeliness since his arrival, due in part to Jethro's work. The mortal man had recovered from his fitful delirium and seemingly accepted his present fate, busying himself with cleaning and upheaval of Sinders' shack. The fireplace was now aglow always; the room kept warm with a new door and patched windows to keep the heat in. No longer did the moon throw its beams through the roof holes in shafts, nor the snow lie in patches upon the rotted wooden floor - Jethro had patched the roof of its many failings and trimmed away at least some of the excessive ivy that choked the entire facade. For his bed, Jethro had compiled a collection of old sacks and filled them with leaves, while Arpage had shown no such resourcefulness; he continued to sleep on the floor like a forgotten canine.

The composer turned his nose up. He refused to accept that this intruder, who now sat wearily by his little fire, had upstaged him. Sinders allowed himself to lean into the fireplace in such a way that he unwittingly set his hand aflame.

"Such perilous balance... Those inches separate comfort and pain! Such is the heat of the fire!"

"S-sir... Your arm is on fire," Jethro mumbled nervously.

"Oh my it is!"

Sinders dashed the length of the room and flung his limb into a bucket of water recently used to mop the floor.

"Stupid old pumpkin head," huffed Arpage.

"What's that, Mr. Arpage?" replied Sinders. "Don't you have seeds to sow? Ah ha!"

"A plague on you both," sneered Arpage as he returned to the field.

Once Sinders had successfully extinguished the flames that had enveloped his arm, he returned to the fireplace and once again stood dominant over the cowering Jethro. The man turned his head and looked up timidly; the hollow caves of Sinders' black eyes held him in a trance, while his stitched zigzag smile made him shudder involuntarily.

In due time, Sinders grew weary of standing and slumped to the floor next to the flame, never once taking his eyes off Jethro. The scarecrow was merely enraptured by a child-like curiosity in the young man; but to Jethro, Sinders stared with a sinister malice. Jethro's hair, once a mess of dirty blonde, had been drained of all colour and was now a shade of grey pushing towards white. He stared right back at Sinders with eyes that openly expressed the deep state of shock he was in. They were glassy pearls; where once an oceanic blue had flowed an ice cap had glassed over his pupils in a useless attempt to stave off insanity. They bore into Sinders all the same, though Jethro's curiosity held far more disbelief than Sinders' naive examinations.

Jethro's mind raced, he had considered means of escape, more so now that he had been removed from Tenebrae Manor but he was at a loss as to where he could flee. Which direction could he possibly take? He had no bearing whatsoever, remaining baffled and directionless under the eternal night sky. Where was the sunlight? Had the sun risen and set as he always knew it to do, he would be able to gauge which way was north and that would at least be a start. But it was always dark! How could that possibly be? At any moment he expected to awaken and cry with relief of the fact that this had all been a nightmare. Since Jethro was unable to recall the events that led him here, he could not be certain what reality was and assumed that he would not simply wake up and have his troubles taken from him. He was a farmhand; he knew that reward came only with hard work. He would take his chances and escape.

He was growing increasingly uncomfortable of Sinders and his constant staring. Clearly the scarecrow had limited social skills, the common rule of keeping one's business to one's self did not make his list of appropriate manners. Yet Jethro could think of nothing to say to break the awkward silence. Several times he opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

"Perhaps you should check on Arpage," he finally managed.

"You think so? Well okay," replied Sinders.

The scarecrow took his leave and left Jethro alone with his fire. He let out a sigh of relief, at least Sinders was easily persuaded. Within his chest he felt his heart pang with remorse, the fire before him gave a nostalgic memory of the sun and its all but forgotten warmth.

It was only once he had delved deeper that Arpage had become suspicious of Jethro. What was dismissed as fickle jealousy by Sinders had in fact had taken root into the fertile soil of the composer's brain and, nourished with the food of his thought, had stirred from its torpor into confirmed distrust. Between the staff lines of his veins where blood flowed legato, he had shoveled away the rabble of quavers and clefs that lay cluttered, waiting to be assigned their position in some unwritten song and found that these dubious feelings towards Jethro were as certain as the music that had forever enchanted him. It had been expected that the human would show the myriad of frantic emotions he had displayed hitherto but Arpage now found himself at a loss to explain Jethro's conformity to the rules of his imprisonment.

Arpage stood as stone-faced as a Venetian mask, his eyes quivering about their sockets, firing icy glares at the crows that had returned from their roosts and settled on the pumpkins. The internal rage that burned within him was but collateral damage. His suspicions had no real proof; on what plausible notion could he place his feet stably? A dreadful sigh pressed past his crooked teeth and whether it was this sigh or his haggard appearance that had done so, he could not tell but numerous crows flew away to his sudden surprise.

With naught to distract him but his mind, Arpage retrieved his sack of seeds and once again found himself hurling granules through the air. And upon hearing again the scattering sounds on the ground, the crows swooped anon.

16: Suspicions

Sleet tore down and although their watery needles thrust cruelly onto the rooftops of Tenebrae Manor with an unadulterated malice, there was perhaps some comfort to be drawn from them. For though the rain was frigid and piercing to the skin, it foretold the presence of a warmer clime. Of those living within Tenebrae Manor, those eternally clinging to any foothold of hope, none were bold enough to assume that the wintery spell was nearing its end.

             
The manor stood marooned, shipwrecked in a grey-green sea; stony turrets jutted skyward as masts, reaching heavenward with rusted spires and apexed roof. The struggle against drowning - drowning in the torrent of forest, was weakening.

For all of Tenebrae's haunting tenacity, the clinging tendrils of ivy and branch that had entwined themselves to the façade could not be forced back. They coiled about column and constricted; as though to asphyxiate, to drag the house down further under until it lay smothered and indistinguishable amongst the wild forest. The vines crawled from all sides and slithered up rampart in search of ingress, while those branches that flourished higher up had found their way over parapet and through broken window. It was as though Tenebrae Manor were victim to colossal arachnid and lay in helpless paralysis as the web was spun all consuming.

And throughout the subtle chaos there still murmured the same throaty groan of the Wood Golems, their echoes penetrating even torrential rain and adding to the shivering fear settling upon the hearts of certain residents.

In the third floor drawing room, where one wall had become verdant with ivy, Edweena sat in the glow of the fireplace and observed Bordeaux, whose profile suckled at the darkness and lengthened its shadow cast by the flames. Across her face there glowed the hint of a smile, accentuating the pale beauty of her face.

"I saw the sun," she said.

Bordeaux stirred from his owl-like stance in front of the fireplace. He looked at her from over his shoulder and laughed softly. "That old thing. And how is our negligent lantern?"

Edweena shuffled in her seat and thrust her reddened forearms at the demon. "Hot as it ever was. Look, it burns."

Her skin had taken on a pink glow and developed a stinging itch where the dawn's light had burned.

"Well, I didn't actually
see
the sun..." she continued, "but the dawn must have been right past the next hill."

"A ghastly look for you," said Bordeaux, preoccupied with Edweena's sunburn. "I think I much prefer your pale pallor."

The crackling of the fire joined the hush of violent rain that filled the gaps of silence between their words. For some minutes following, the pair said nothing. Edweena's sapphire eyes stared intently at Bordeaux; he could feel her gaze and adjusted his stance. Tension mounted in the silence.

"We could leave, you know," Edweena said eventually.

Bordeaux did not react immediately but slowly turned away from the fireplace and sat down in a leather armchair next to her.

"Well, certainly not now."

Edweena tilted her head in vexation.

"It's raining," said Bordeaux.

The vampiress smirked solemnly. She was not used to Bordeaux making jokes.

"I cannot leave," he continued. "Not while I am needed."

"You could be needed for centuries. I don't see anyone standing up to the pedestal where you find yourself perched."

Bordeaux's face pained with longing, he poured the weight of his depression into the fire with his deadpan stare.

"Why care so much, Bordeaux?" pressed Edweena. "This house, home to be certain but so depressing. Are we wasting the hours by staying here? We have all the time in the world, yet we choose to lurk in this half lit dimness."

He considered her words and searched his mind for the appropriate response. "The longer one stands still, the harder it becomes to move again. My friends are here and they have need of my duties. Especially now."

Bordeaux retrieved Madlyn's brooch from his coat pocket and spun it in his fingers. Having grown weary of such weighted topics, Edweena turned to other things.

"What is that thing you're carrying around anyway?"

"It was given to me by Madlyn."

Edweena laughed bitterly. "That poor girl. Reaching for you - untouchable you."

"Be civil."

"Oh lighten up, I know what you think of the girl."

"In some other life, perhaps a clumsy little sister?"

She laughed harder. "I could not have put it better!"

Bordeaux became serious again; "It perplexes me, where she could have gotten such an item."

"Clearly Libra's," replied Edweena. "But what does that matter? It's just a brooch, a perfect little trinket for your emasculated taste."

"I hardly think that was necessary."

"There there, B," said Edweena. "Go on then, tell me all about it."

Bordeaux leaned forward in his chair. "I had thought as such; that is, that Libra were the owner of this brooch. I resolved to approach her about it, having received little help from Madlyn herself. When I made my way to our lady's quarters I was puzzled to find the room vacant. It was a rare occasion, I suppose, that I happened to chance upon an hour where Libra was not in her usual reclining and I was at once stumped as to where to search for her..."

Bordeaux called out but no response came. The room was still, devoid of light and cold as though neglected for years. He struck his fingers like a flint and lit the lantern hanging closest to the door. Libra's absence was most irregular; yet he could not pass up the opportunity to snoop about her opulent home. She had certainly hoarded an admirable quantity of fine treasures. It seemed such a waste to him to see such brilliant paintings stacked in corners as though they were mere firewood.

Bordeaux inspected her dresser, finding to his surprise that it lacked the clutter akin to the furnishings that surrounded it. The mirror was tall and on the counter lay a hairbrush, perfumes and a garish jewelry box, baroque as a bohemian church. He imagined Libra, ensconced on the stool before the vanity, marveling her own self-absorbed beauty.

Shaking his head, Bordeaux wondered whether Libra had noticed the effects of her excess - was her confidence born of denial or ignorance? Yet he could not blame her inactivity at times, having grown tired of travel himself and finding limited resources with which to whittle away the hours of eternity.

His own gaunt cheekbones cut a reflective portrait in the mirror. The face that stared back at him was the very same that he would have seen hundreds of years earlier. He suddenly ached for rest and found himself weary of his own youthful looks; looks that rarely showed the torments of his years. It was only his eyes that betrayed his fatigue. The years gone by flew past in his mind’s eye, smothering his vision like a murder of crows swooping upon him; he recalled his first meeting with Libra. The way Malistorm had introduced her so highly, the initial attraction he felt for the slim and shapely beauty before him, the fierce competition that plagued the early years of their friendship and established the foundation of their future strains. She had been on a par with him for centuries; in intellect, magic, wisdom,
power
.

Only recently, namely the two or so years gone by, had Libra stood unmatched in her challenge to the headship of the manor. And once she had gotten there… In the reflection he thought he could discern a figure but upon turning around it was only a hulking wardrobe looming over a mountain of discarded clothing.

Libra's bed, perennially unmade, lay in a shamble of sheets in the centre of the room, illuminated by the light of the night seeping through rain-smeared windowpanes. The place was hedonistic shamble smothered in its own gluttony.

Bordeaux tried to remember the Libra of old, determined and hotheaded, half her size in both physicality and status. She already seemed long gone; perhaps Libra had been his friend then but he knew now she was no more than a difficult colleague.

Moving across the cluttered floor, Bordeaux slammed his shin into the side of the lady’s favourite chaise lounge. He swore through his teeth quietly, face flushed with embarrassment. But there was none who saw his momentary lapse in dignity and, doing his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg, he regained his composure.

Once it became apparent that he could not find anything tangible in unraveling his mystery, Bordeaux decided to take leave. He gritted his teeth, his mind nagged at him, told him to go find Libra, if only to ask a few questions. Maybe she would know nothing; such a response would at least quench some of his angst. It seemed unlikely that he could find Libra in Tenebrae Manor, the house where hundreds of rooms weaved together into an unsolvable maze. Adding further to his misfortune was the stammering question of where Libra could be, considering her disdain for leaving this place. If she were not here, Bordeaux could not think where else to look.

Back out in the hallway, closing the door behind him, he considered for a moment a trip to the kitchens downstairs but he presently tossed the idea to the wind. He knew Libra’s apathy would not last the entire return journey up the flights of stairs. The girl was lazy; he had to remember that.

Bordeaux was at a loss – he knew he could only return later and hope for Libra to be present. He had only taken a few steps in the direction of the main stairwell when he was brought to a halt by a sudden noise. It was a creaking that he could not be certain of, for at that very moment thunder clapped outside the window at the end of the hall, cloaking the sound.

He turned, staring back down the long hall and saw the silhouette of a figure opening the bedroom door and shutting it softly. Lightning flashed through the window and a face was illuminated, hanging suspended within that fleeting second like a moon against an inky backdrop of space - the face of Lady Libra. The unshakable confidence that was oft so prominent on her features had vanished with the confirmation of an intruder, it was obvious she had not expected nor desired any visitors. Best she could, Libra resolutely assumed the façade of her confident composure and tried to smile at the crimson demon.

“Bordeaux,” she whispered. “You’ve come to see me?”

Bordeaux eyed her suspiciously. “I had just left.”

“You were… In there?” asked Lady Libra, her eyes widening and finger pointing gingerly at the door.

Bordeaux nodded.

“I was just, uh, looking for Madlyn,” said Libra. “Returned just this moment.”

Bordeaux stood musing. The bedroom door was the only door between himself and the lady, until the hallway ended at the large window beyond. He would certainly have seen Libra pass him in the narrow hallway, yet she was not in the bedroom moments ago when he had been there. How it was that she now stood where she was flexed the logical limits of his mind.

“A brief visit was my intent, Libra.”

“Oh well, B, could it wait?” Libra continued to turn her head distractedly towards her door but changed her mind. “Oh fine, be quick.”

Bordeaux held the black rose brooch aloft, “Is this yours?”

“My brooch! Yes! Give that here!” said Libra. She reached forward and greedily grasped the air in front of her. “Come now Bordeaux,
that’s mine!”

The crimson demon did not hand it over immediately, gauging her reaction best he could.

Libra frowned furiously, then seemed to decide against anger and instead, produced a sickly sweet smile.

“Fine. Keep it. Like I care!”

“Might I ask where it came from?”

“I found it,” said Libra. “I’ve had it for a
long
time. Can’t
possibly
recall where I got it…. It was only a plant if I remember, I made it into a brooch myself.”

Bordeaux paused and replied, “It is very nice.”

“Don’t stare so, Bordeaux. You know it’s rude. So is going into other people’s rooms! and another thing - how did you get my brooch? You stole!”

“I did not steal, my lady. Madlyn gave it to me.”

“That sneaky witch!” snapped Libra, “And she is supposed to be bringing me my supper right now!” Libra stamped her foot and pouted. She sighed, shoulders slouching. “I have to do everything around here.”

It was with a struggle that she maneuvered her ample form around Bordeaux and made for the stairwell, the barely audible sound of her footsteps betraying the heaviness of her tread.

“Come away from there, Bordeaux,” she said, looking sternly back at him.

****

"I suppose it was just her own conceit that had her commanding the brooch to be returned to her. One moment she was so despairing to get it back and the next..."

"I can vouch. In years past, she'd keep whatever caught her fancy," said Edweena. "Quite obsessive if you ask me..."

"You miss those times?"

Edweena looked away from Bordeaux, who, seeing the discomfort of her suppressed anger, returned to his own musings. He twirled the brooch in his hand.

"It was a wastrel endeavour. All I discovered was that this thing does, in fact, belong to Libra."